


Tickets to Your Heaven

by ReduxCath



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Atheism, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Bisexual Male Character, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Season 3, Semi-Public Sex, almost, parenthood discussions, two for the price of one!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReduxCath/pseuds/ReduxCath
Summary: Based on Season 3, Episode 19. Set during and after the episode.House sent Wilson flowers to screw with him and Cuddy, because he wasn't an idiot and they very obviously slept together. Wilson surprises him by turning the tables, and House can't get him out of his mind as he works to help a little girl and her bratty brother survive their father's unintentional fuck-up.Big Edit: Forgot Wilson was Jewish and not Christian like a dumbass. Fixed it so he's Jewish.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 91





	Tickets to Your Heaven

“You totally want to kiss her.”

“I don’t!!”

“Yes, you _do_.”

House stares Wilson down with the same intensity that he uses on green, wide-eyed residents thinking that they can prove themselves without first absolutely eating the shit. Of course it’s not as pure as that. It’s tainted by the fact that Wilson is a professional in his own right, not a sprightly college graduate with unearned confidence and a lack of truly cohesive memory structure (which is what House purported to pound into his residents). It’s also tainted by the fact that Wilson is going after one of the women of the hospital that isn’t absolutely insufferable and whiny, and House just has to get him to admit that he, deep down, actually—

“…Alright, I do.” Wilson breathes out, defeated

House’s eyebrows perk up slowly as his victory washes over him, and he cannot say that he’s unsurprised that Wilson really wants to bang Cuddy. The man is a golden retriever in the shape of a person, loyal and good and sappy till the end. There are times that House doubts his capacity for a sex drive.

So he has to confirm. “Really?”

Then Wilson reminds him that he’s not as stupid as he likes to pretend he is, and frowns at him. “No.” He turns and rolls his shoulders. “You’re a jerk.” Oooh, that stings, surely. House smirks slightly and opens his hands to welcome the admission. Being a jerk gets results, and between the two of them, he’s sure that he wouldn’t prefer Wilson’s cheerful and by-the-book modus operandi.

And he expects him to walk out the door. It’s getting late, after all. The man probably wants to go to bed, if he knows what’s good for him. He’s about to head out himself. This case with the girl that wants to start puberty has been a fun little puzzle, but he won’t loose too much sleep over it. If he’s lucky, he’ll dream about her bratty older brother taking a bite out of Chase’s arm and standing over him, declaring his undying pre-pre-teen love for a woman more than 5 times his age.

It’s hilarious, really.

But Wilson doesn’t exit the room just yet. He turns around, walks back to House’s desk, and leans over slightly, putting his hands on the edge of the wood for support. “You know, you’d be a good romantic if you ever gave it an actual shot.”

“I’m good at everything.” He replies, because he’s sleepy and he doesn’t want to try to think of a better quip. House leans forward, using the backs of his hands as a chin rest as he stares up at Wilson and looks for anything to comment on. Cuddy was wearing extra makeup, and calling her out on that was a nice bit of fun. “You’ve got bags under your eyes.” He murmurs.

“Comes with the job.” Wilson smiles, and for a single moment House senses that he’s in newer territory. The air has shifted slightly and he’s more invested in this conversation. But Wilson doesn’t remain in his position. He stands back up straight, looks down, and begins to fish in his pocket. The angled orange glow of House’s lamp washes over his face and does him a good service. “Your flowers were pretty.”

“You liked them?”

“I did. I used to help at my dorm’s garden back in undergrad. Know a bit about them.” And then he leans forward again, pushing something paper-like forward until it touches House’s elbow. “A play. Next weekend.”

House squints up at him before looking at the ticket. It’s at the same theatre that Cuddy and Wilson went to together. Somewhat far, from the hospital, but for a date night it would be expected that adults make some effort. In the balcony, no less. He nods to himself. Wilson would, of course, charm his way around until he got lucky just like House did. Only that Wilson used positive charms, where House’s were abrasive and negative. Again, not his preferred methodology by a long shot. “There are those who say that taking gifts from patients is ethically wrong. Apollo might just smite you.”

“So you _do_ believe in God after all, just not the Christian one.” Wilson jokes, grins in his pure, pretty-boy way. House catches a hint of his simple Star of David around his neck, hidden by his shirt. “Or the Jewish one.” He jokes.

House smiles too, more slyly than his golden puppy counterpart. “The fact that Apollo hasn’t deigned to destroy either of us means he’s either a hypocrite or he doesn’t exist.” Many people expressed their faiths to House. Natural, as he was someone who worked at the border of life and death. And he shot them down in equal measure because, and everyone knew this deep down, it was all stupid. But Wilson wasn’t a pansy. His eyes didn’t darken with self-doubt or inner pain. He only got angry at House whenever he shot at others.

“Or, that a gift from a patient’s mother, to show her appreciation, doesn’t violate his rules.” Unlike many believers, Wilson never employed the self-satisfactory grin, the shit-eating smirk. And that annoyed House because it meant that he couldn’t hate Wilson for that.

“Are we talking his rules, or _His_?” House arches his eyebrow. Very pointedly, his eyes travel down Wilson’s face, tracing his mouth, his teeth, his chin, all the way down his throat until he gets to that glint of gold nestled in between tufts of chest hair.

Wilson leans in closer. “You know what I think.”

“And you know what _I_ think.”

Wilson’s so close that House can smell his breath. Idiot should really go to bed. House pushes the ticket back into his hand, making the paper brush against his fingers. “You’re being stupid.” He murmurs, feeling the slight pull of sleep at his eyes. He’ll never succumb to it, of course, but Wilson is spreading his stupid disease of normal energy levels. “I told you. You give opera tickets to women you want to sleep with.”

Wilson holds his stare for a moment, his smile shrinking slightly into a face he probably doesn’t know he’s making. It’s one of those rare instances where hospitals don’t feel like dens of disease or death or stupidly uneducated morons. The star glints again inside of Wilson’s shirt, but in this moment it’s easier than usual to ignore.

Then Wilson laughs, and the moment breaks with his giggles.

The soft sounds coming from his body, the way his shoulders shake with his silly mirth, it drives House up a wall, because that had been the calmest he had felt in weeks. “Sorry, sorry.” The man apologizes, and he stands up again. The mirth creates a good, genuine smile on his face that would make any eligible bachelorette a diabetic. It only makes House sigh through his nose. “I thought of something to say, but it’s kind of rude.”

“I’m rude to you all the time.” He stands up to match his height. Still somewhat close together at the face, separated by only a desk. “Say it. I won’t get mad.”

“You better not.” And Wilson pushes the ticket back into House’s hands, turns and leaves. “If you don’t come, I’ll tell Cuddy!”

“She wouldn’t care! Why would—” It’s nonsensical, unless Cuddy is the type of woman to enjoy male friendships like these. But as House looks at the ticket, he lets another breath out of his nose. If it would get Cuddy into bed, he wouldn’t mind sharing her with this good little Jewish boy.

He leaves his office, goes down and sits in his car. As he’s starting the engine, he realizes that Wilson isn’t at all the type who would be comfortable in a threesome, and he groans as the car roars to life. Goddamned handsome son of a bitch.

\---------------------------

“Hey.” House grins down at the little girl whose ball he’s stepped on. “Do you have any hair in your special place?”

He holds back a devilish laugh as she calls for her teacher. The woman appears, frazzled and confused—and of course, as any good instructor, secretly ready to smash House’s brain in if he’s a bad man. He can see it in her eyes, the secret intensity that tells him if anything horrible happened at this school, all the children would end up going home safe and sound. Wilson would, perhaps, say a prayer to his god, urging his holiness to never let that happen.

House contents himself with knowing he’d treat this woman if she lands at his hospital.

As they talk and House does his usual probing into her private life (an afterschool teacher sleeping with the father of two of her students, who’s a professor in university? Spicy), he looks at the kids. Small, growing bundles of nerves, muscles, and several other types of tissues. Some might choose to be a doctor like him and Wilson, and he tries to imagine them all grown up, wearing lab coats, getting chewed out by someone during their rounds. And he feels pity for them because whoever that is, it won’t be him, and that means it won’t be a good education. Perhaps he should record something for when he’s gone so that future physicians don’t suddenly grow retarded at his absence.

And the teacher calls him an ass, turns around, and leaves. She’s got a fine ass herself, of course. He can see why daddy professor taps that frequently. He’ll grill him about it later, make him blush under his own embarrassment. This case is basically solved. Only a real act of god would throw him back to square one now.

But there’s a little boy. Blonde, with brown eyes that have flecks of green, and a Marian medallion around his little neck. He’s looking up at House with shy wonder. House gives him a look, he hides behind one of his friends. A black girl, two fluffy pigtails with purple and pink clips. She looks like a tough little trooper, but the way her voice comes out of her mouth would net her a part as an angel in a catholic school’s play any day of the week. “Are you a doctor?”

“Yep. I am.”

She looks back at her friend and they both smile up at him. “Cool.”

House bids them adieu. If he were Wilson, he’d make slight chatter. Ask them if they liked medicine. If they wanted to be doctors too. If he were Wilson, he’d water their dreams, tenderize the soil around their souls and beam a smile down on them like the sun. But House doesn’t do that. If they end up in his field, they’ll do so because they wanted it themselves. And he won’t give them sweet words, because if these two little brats will actually be worth their weight in salt when they’re older, they won’t need them.

\---------------------------

On the way back to the hospital, he meets three more children. One on the sidewalk, one in the reception area, and one on the way to the elevator. He only really pays attention to the child in the elevator (red hair, blue eyes, dinosaur tshirt that’s been well-worn, kippah adorned with baseballs) because Wilson is there. Talking to him. Tending to his soil with the same care he uses for other children, regardless of their background or appearance. This boy has the same look of wonder that those other children had. And under Wilson’s universally loving presence it roars to life like the fire on his head.

“Hey House.” He nods up. Like House can’t notice the way he radiates love and peace wherever he goes.

“Hmm.” He nods back.

Like an idiot, the boy’s mother smiles at him. “Damian wants to be a doctor like you two are.” She turns to him. Wearing a blue hoodie that hides her red curls, and with the light scarf around her neck she looks like the Virgin made flesh. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah!” He smiles up. Toothy, happy, growing. “Mister, what do you do in the hospital?”

“I—” He meets Wilson’s eyes. They aren’t assuming anything , but he knows House more than well enough by now, so they’re not naïve. But that’s not what House’s mind conjures up in the split second where they’re looking at one another. He remembers the smile, the glow of the lamp on his face, the star amongst his chest hair, his chin close to his nose.

“—I’m a diagnostician. I find out what’s wrong with people so that other better doctors can treat them.”

He has stars in his eyes. “Like a detective!”

House nods, looks back up. Ignores the way that Wilson’s face breaks out into a smile.

\---------------------------

The case was solved, the kids got to go home, boy on his legs, girl in a wheelchair. The dad got told to stop wetting his noodle with stupid creams, and they left like all the other innocent successes. Smiles, smiles on their face.

House had expected something else to bother him that week. Something more. But even though there were other cases, they all were unremarkable and passed by fast.

Fast enough to get him into Wilson’s car.

“You need a drive home?” The man asks him.

“A ride home, then a ride to the theatre.” He says, taking his Vicodin and making a point to ignore the way Wilson’s face makes no effort to hide his surprise. Honest idiot to a fault. “I can’t exactly show up to this play of ours reeking like I do.”

Wilson beams. “You were running around today.”

“So were you.” He pokes at the man’s armpits. Moist as he expected.

\---------------------------

They ride home in relative silence, discussing the day. Wilson showers first, because House’s gesture planted some doubt in his head and now he worries he’s dirtier than he actually is. As the water runs, House takes a bit more medication with water. Wilson’s shirt is discarded on the bed with his underwear, the sweat stains clearly visible under the even light of the room. He does him a favor and tosses the articles of clothing in the bin he uses for dirty clothes. And because the water goes through his system rather quickly, House makes his way to the bathroom. It’s full of mist and Wilson’s silhouette is behind the curtain. It looks surprised, as though it hadn’t expected such an intrusion. The toilet is right next to the shower, as if that’s not some stupid design choice. But at least this way he doesn’t have to shout. “Need to pee.” House says.

“Alright.” Once, when House had first come here, he’d taken a piss as Wilson showered. The man got hotter water than he liked, and he yelped before peeking form the curtain and scowling at him, hair as wet as a dog. They’d gotten it fixed, and the problem hadn’t reappeared.

House lets the urine flow. Sighs as his bladder empties.

“I’m glad those kids were ok,” Wilson comments as the tell-tale sound of shampooing resounds.

“I was their doctor, of course they were.” He smirks. “Chase wasn’t though.”

Wilson makes a noise of affirmation. “Can’t imagine having a horny kid at 8 years old.”

He turns his head. “So there _are_ brats you can’t stand.”

Wilson chuckles. “You don’t think I have limits?”

“There are times where you’re extremely convincing.” House replies, arching his brows. Wislon has the unfortunate penchant of actually caring about the people he treats, of getting too emotionally invested and making himself look like an idiot in House’s objective eyes. Poor idiot will kill himself before he learns to kick that stupid habit. It’s a wonder he’s managed to preform as admirably as he has until now.

Wilson ignores him, sighs in pleasure. He’s probably washing his hair. Letting the suds roll down his back. House doesn’t lie to himself. He’s thought about it, and he’s considered images of this nature with almost as much regularity as he considers those where Cuddy is involved. His friend breaks his thoughts again. “I remember what you said to that kid in the elevator.”

“He asked a question.”

“He called you a detective,” Wilson said. A smile in his voice. “It was sweet.”

House finishes pissing and turns to leave. Wilson opens the curtain and catches House with his soft cock still out, and the two men look down at each other before looking up. Wilson’s cheeks are pink. “S-Sorry.”

“Why?” He says. Not moving, except to put his dick back into his pants. “We’re going to see a play. We’ve crossed all the bases.”

Wilson blinks. Wet all over.

House snaps his fingers. “Now let me shower, or we’re going to be late to the gala.”

Unlike Wilson, House is efficient with his time, and they leave in only 5 more minutes.

\---------------------------

This play isn’t a recognized work. It’s an experimental piece made by theatre students from the local university. “I thought we were going to see Hamlet.” He complains, happy that this position in the balcony is letting him air his troubles. Even something as stupid as Hamlet would be more bearable than watching socially deviant undergrads (they were theatre majors, after all) ‘express their souls’ through the medium of the theater.

“These were the tickets I was gifted.” Wilson returns the murmur, his breath tickling House’s ear. House doubts that the Muses would call this a ‘gift’ fitting of the domain of theatre, and like the good friend he is, Wilson catches onto his thoughts. “Apollo would probably not approve of me demanding a different title. As if she could change it on the spot.”

Always a goody two-shoes. “She dumped the tickets on you because she didn’t want to see this bullshit.” He whispers, fully aware that there’s a slight chance an angry parent or teacher or ‘fan’ could hear him curse, and catches a whiff of Wilson’s cologne. He’s wearing cologne. Sappy motherfucker. “You said she works at the university?”

“She…” Wilson thinks. House lets him think next to his ear. He lets him think as he covers his mouth, as House feels the skin of his fingers on his stubble. “…she’s part of the performing arts department.”

House turns to him, grins wickedly.

Wilson gives him a puppydog face, saying that they should pity the poor saps instead.

“You’re a baby.”

“Shhh!!!” A portly woman nags House. Wilson smirks, satisfied.

But the poor saps are good enough to get the crowd invested in their story. House isn’t paying too much attention. After all, there are only so many stories humans can tell. Out of the seven types, it seems this one is a classic tale of overcoming difficulties.

House looks down at the characters, at the people playing the characters. He’s leaned into Wilson, who surely gives him a look but doesn’t say anything. “You know, I was thinking that we could end up sharing Cuddy. She likes theatre, we could both take her, and this would end up being a menage trois.”

“Do you want to share Cuddy?” Wilson whispers. His neck is a good shape for House’s head. “Is she up for sharing?”

“Would you be?”

“No. I don’t like that.” Wilson says, his voice rumbling in his throat and massaging House’s skull. “I have to pay attention to one person.”

“You’re a sap.” House murmurs. But he’s warm. The crowd roars with cheers at the end of the first act, where apparently, the main character’s wife has borne a child.

Act 2 deals with the characters raising a kid. It’s a messy affair. 4 adults who have no business being anywhere near a child enroll the little girl in school and try to make sure she doesn’t crash and burn like they did. “I like kids.” Wilson says, softly enough so that only House can hear him.

“I don’t.”

“You should.” Wilson says, surely knowing how asinine of a statement that is. “Some like you.” House doesn’t respond, watches as the little girl makes some big stink about a school election. Watches as the ‘co-parents’ struggle to actually parent. One of the two men is distant, doesn’t speak to the girl a lot. Of course it’s shown that he’s working a high-profile job and puts up most if not all of the monetary support in the family, but it causes House’s knuckles to turn ever so-slightly white. “You’d be a good dad.”

House stops leaning on him. Turns to him, scowling. “I would be a _horrible_ dad.”

Wilson seems to be as much a liar as House is. Because the way he’s looking at House isn’t like any way he’s looked at House in the hospital. He dares to hold House’s hand. “I don’t think so.” It’s so fucking warm that House has half a mind to rip his fingers out of his loving grasp, and why is he touching him so tenderly? Why is the star around his neck so visible, even though he’s wearing a suit and looks so goddamned fine and gorgeous? Why is Wilson lying to himself? Why?

House leans back in. “I’m just like that rich asshole. I wouldn’t be good for a kid.”

“You should give yourself a chance.” And just like some signal, the story changes—or it seems to change, because House hasn’t been paying enough attention to catch the most-likely third-rate foreshadowing. The absentee father ‘co-parent’ arrives at the school election. The girl loses by a landslide, but she’s so happy that he came that no one cares.

“My suspension of disbelief has been shot.” House murmurs.

But Wilson doesn’t let go of his hand. He can hear the man’s heartbeat through his suit.

It’s the intermission.

The other people in the balcony have left. Wilson is with House, sitting. The two are alone, and if anyone’s going to make a move, it should be right now, because wouldn’t that be kinky? But all Wilson does is look at House, and it’s making his heart rate rise. “You’re my friend, House. You know that, right?”

“Is that why you invited me to a play and put flowers around my head?”

There are no flowers around his head, no flower crown of affection. But there might as well be with how subtle Wilson is being. The man shrugs. No longer smiling. “Do you not like it?”

“Is your plan to make me your woman? Because men only take women to plays if they want to sleep with them.” He makes sure to repeat it.

It’s because this came out of left field, and he wants to hear Wilson say it. If he’s going to give up a choice ass like Cuddy’s and go for whatever bullshit this is, with all the stupidity and the lying and self-deception evident in that necklace hidden by that tie, he needs to hear Wilson say it. “Are you,” House ups the ante and gets in Wilson’s face. “going to make me _have kids_ to show me how good of a father I would be?”

He’s surprised, does not comment on the association of House being the woman and having kids. “Do you want kids with me?”

“I never said that.”

He arches an eyebrow. “So you _don’t_ want kids.”

House’s hands ache for something to strangle, something hard and made for his irritation. But he cannot do that to Wilson, so he settles for the empty air between their chests. “…Just because children are the future, doesn’t mean I’m suited for them.”

“Maybe not. But you do save them.”

“It’s my job.”

Wilson strokes his cheek and puts their foreheads together, as soft and as kind as any woman in the world, with that special male touch. “It’s my job too.”

Their lips meet. It’s chaste. But Wilson is not the type to suck cock in a public place, so he conveys all he can through the gesture.

He tries, grinning, just for kicks. “Wanna go to the bathroom?”

Wilson scowls. But the good little Jewish doctor leans in close and bites at House’s lip, just firmly enough to make the man’s breath come out hot from his nostrils. He lets go of House’s bottom lip and murmurs. “I can’t do everything I want to in there.”

The play proceeds. The two fathers struggle over raising their daughter through the years. One mother loses her religion, the other returns to her old faith, and the daughter becomes—and this makes House feel something—a doctor. She turns as she takes her first case, her family behind her, and smiles.

He holds Wilson’s hand through it all. Through the pregnancy scare. Through the part where she almost fails out of college. Through the part where the two men who ‘co-parent’ her kiss and the audience cheers like it’s a goddamned spring break party. He leans over to Wilson’s ear and snidely remarks his distaste. “They’re a bunch of pansies. Calling it ‘co-parenting’ like that makes them more interesting.”

“People do what they need to be happy.” Wilson says, kneading House’s knuckles.

“Would being a ‘co-parent’ make you happy?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

Wilson turns to him and kisses him too. “It’s the kid that needs to feel interesting, not me.”

House leans against his friend—now most likely more-than-a-friend—and nods. That title wouldn’t fit Wilson anyway. He does not let himself consider if it suits him or not. Even though he already knows the answer. Even though the thought of actually walking the walk makes him dizzy because it’s never worked for him.

But someone like Wilson would make it work. Wilson was just good like that.

House takes a peek over the urinal at Wilson. He makes the man turn pink again. But he likes the sight. And no one else notices, so it’s not like it’s bad. Well, he’ll probably get an earful about public indecency later, but it’s worth it in his mind, to see how pure and good Wilson is.

\---------------------------

When they get to the car, Wilson kisses him again. Not as pure as he thought. “So, when did you figure out you liked boys?” House asks in his usual clippy manner. “Did Brad share his pudding with you during recess?”

“High school. Played some basketball and saw enough dicks in the shower to know I wasn't just sneaking glances.” Wilson remarks, leaving a trail of saliva at his chin, ignoring his quip. The man’s energy is building up, and House wonders if that flimsy star can keep it at bay before they reach the house. “And you?”

“I’ve always known.”

“But you also like girls. Otherwise, me sleeping with Cuddy wouldn’t have upset you.” Wilson knows he was married once. Everyone knows. It makes this whole affair that much saucier from the perspective of Wilson’s upbringing. For House, not so much. His wife always told him to look out for himself. They wouldn't have married each other if they had imposed limits like a couple of morons.

House pushes back against him and tugs at his tie. If it were more easily available in this enclosed space, he’d tug at his chain necklace. But this does the trick well enough. “Ah, but I’m not the only deviant in this car, am I?”

“Who’s calling us deviants?” Wilson asks.

The sex gets put on the backburner. They get into a lengthy conversation about whether or not kissing men is something proper for a son of the Chosen People, whether or not Wilson is a hypocrite, and House wonders if it’s impossible after all. But the feeling of Wilson’s lips remains on his for the entire conversation, and it helps him to tone down his intensity. Which is so unlike him, because he’s usually so quick on the draw most people don’t even see it coming.

Wilson makes no effort to hide that he appreciates it.

They enter the living room and sit on the couch. Well, House sits on the couch. Wilson lays over House and cradles his face. House takes off his tie and breathes in the scent of cologne on his neck. It’s so good. So good on him. So good on Wilson.

The tie comes off, the buttons come undone, and House tugs at the Star of David.

“I would say this bullshit has killed millions. You would say it’s helped millions.” He looks up at Wilson, and is reminded why he elected to go on this trip with the man in the first place. Wilson is not like the frantic idiots who beg him to work miracles he doesn’t believe in. He’s not blind, nor willingly stupid, and doesn’t ignore the bloody history of the faith his parents instilled in him. It’s not perfect (if Wilson was perfect, he’d be a proper atheist), but it’s enough to have him earn House’s respect.

“I know as much as anyone knows,” Wilson responds, undoing House’s shirt, voicing his inner agnostic. 

“You’re ok with me, knowing I think it’s a bunch of bullshit?” He presses. “I won’t hesitate to tear into you, and you know it.”

“You would never hurt me. You can’t.” Their shirts are off and they’re laying back down, chests pressed together and faces barely apart. “Because I know you’re a good person and you care. You hate things like this because it concerns you.” He’s so sweet that it makes House smell challah bread. Wilson shared with him once. It had cemented his inner suspicions that the man had a gift for cooking. “You care about the consequences.”

House doesn't say anything. Wilson takes that as a sign to keep talking. "But don't worry. It's not like I don't have any self-respect. You'll get chewed out if you really deserve it." But that's not what's bothering House. He has told Wilson, over and over, time and time again, that he does not _care_. And Wilson has elected to ignore him. He breathes, feeling the loving caress of Wilson’s fingers around his leaking shaft, and pushes through the haze of lust to lift his head and bite at Wilson’s lips. Wilson’s fingers tighten just right and a growl escapes his mouth. They rut against each other, one sweet and harsh, the other angry and needy.

"Fuck it. Bed."

They stand, collecting themselves just enough that they can go to Wilson’s room and close the door. And again Wilson’s on top. He’s serious about making House his woman. The way his eyes are alight with desire makes it clear. It’s almost too much, but the harsh grip on his cock grounds him, and before House can count to ten, their pants and underwear are on the ground, with socks coming next.

Naked, the two men kiss, tongues pushing against each other. House hisses into Wilson’s jaw when he pinches his nipples. He shivers with delight at the sensation of that wet tongue leaving a trail down his chest and stomach. His dick throbs with need, and Wilson takes him into his mouth, making House moan.

House sits up, looks at the way Wilson is licking at him, bobbing up and down, and takes a hold of his hair. Instead of pushing him down, he pulls him up, and makes sure his grip is secure as he stares Wilson in the eyes. “You said I’m a good person. That’s wrong.”

“You are.”

“Bullshit.” He doesn’t let him stand.

Wilson doesn’t need to stand to make his point. He moves his arm up and caresses House’s face. “I _believe_ that you are.” He’s serious. He’ll punch him too.

House sighs. Like the proverbial chicken playing chess, this idiot won’t ever quit. So he decides to let Wilson have his fun and rolls his eyes. “Fine. Stubborn as a mule.” He pushes Wilson’s face into his balls and bends down to growl into his ear, ignoring how his back is going to hurt tomorrow. “You’ll just have to believe for both of us.”

Wilson pushes past House’s hold, moves his face up, and roughly kisses him again, as though sealing some promise.

\---------------------------

They’re in bed. Under the covers, decent save for the sweat covering their bodies and the condoms strewn about the ground. House’s ass is sore, both their cocks are spent, and Wilson’s mouth is wet from all that preparation and tender love and care he gave.

He holds his hand as he drifts off to sleep.

\---------------------------

_He dreams of Wilson in the hospital, praying with a patient. In his dream, House knows exactly what the patient is suffering from, knows that her conservative Muslim family has put pressure on her, making her condition worse, and knows that she appreciated when Wilson so gallantly offered himself with “I’m as Muslim as you need me to be.” He waits for him outside until he’s done. He’s glowing with joy when he comes out. “We can do surgery.” He breathes. “I got her consent.” He looks like he’s saved the world after saving a single person. A crown materializes on his brown locks as they walk. House understands that he’s earned it._

\---------------------------

The sunlight filters through the window. House turns to memorize Wilson’s face, drinking his presence until he’s fully satisfied and can go about his day. When Wilson awakes, he’s in the bathroom, pissing. They brush their teeth naked, and Wilson spits in the bowl after House. His star dangles from his neck as he does, clicking against the porcelain bowl. “Rough night?” He asks House, smirking as he gropes his ass and puts a finger between his cheeks.

“Yeah. I had to watch undergrads pine for their professors’ approval.” He rolls his eyes and kisses him. “And then my best friend shot too early after we got home.” He returns the grasp with a slap to Wilson’s cheeks. “Made the whole affair more awkward than it should’ve been.”

Wilson chuckles into his hair. “As if you’d be any better.” House recognizes the invitation in his voice and bites softly at his ear.


End file.
